The Earthbound Alien

We all have a story, and we all have this innate desire to tell our stories. Your story doesn’t have to be true, it just has to say what you want the world to believe about you. But what is the true story of your life, and is it worth reading?

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I know my true story, and it is not half as impressive as the stories I prefer telling about myself. Yet, in the pages of this public journal, I will attempt to tell the true stories of my life… and I will fail.

Terribly.

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You see, I was born blind. From the moment I kicked my way out of my mother’s womb, I have been fumbling for direction. I have made many wrong turns and bumped into numerous brick walls. My stubbed toes tell it better than my lips.

I was born deaf, unable and unwilling to listen to the truth about myself and the world around me. I was born lame, unable to walk. I was born numb, feeling nothing for the world around me unless those feelings were about me and what the world could do for me.

In short, I was born dead. From the first baby steps to the first
word uttered, the stillborn baby was only growing to be a  dead man walking.

But then I heard a voice. A strange voice. It spoke my name in a way that I have never heard it said before. The voice called me out of the darkness and into the light. My eyes were opened, my ears unplugged and for the first time in my death, I saw and heard, and I was truly born.

For the first time in my life, I was alive.

This blog is a lame attempt at telling a better story. The story of the one who called me out of the grave and into his marvelous life. It is a blog about Jesus, who moved into the corpse that was me and is now teaching me to see and hear and walk like him… through him.

The words in these pages are alien words, inspired by an author from another planet, though typed by earthbound fingers. That means these words are desperately insufficient to communicate the glorious realities of my true home — that alien country that I have never been to and yet long with the nostalgia of deep familiarity.

But I write anyway, because that is what it seems I was made to do best, to write about the One who called me into that country; the One in whom I live, move and have my being. I am an alien. This world is not my home.

And neither does it have to be yours.

If you know what who I mean.

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